


Weed squad

by Aussie_Homesucc



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alchemised weed, Earth C (Homestuck), Idiots, Other, Past Relationship(s), WIP, no beta we die like men, who let gamzee alchemise shit
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-26
Updated: 2019-07-26
Packaged: 2020-07-20 06:03:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19987330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aussie_Homesucc/pseuds/Aussie_Homesucc
Summary: Three men use bad coping mechanisms to face their demons.Somehow Karkat is the rational one. But unfortunately, he is a side character and comic relief.(This shit's going to be just a stream of consciousness tbh)





	Weed squad

Your name is Dirk Strider and you’re contemplating pulling your teeth out. You’ve been running your tongue over them. A few days have gone by since they’ve seen the rough caress of a toothbrush. It's certainly too late now to save them. Can you lose teeth forever while god tier. You could certainly test it. Your name is Dirk Strider and for the past few hours, you’ve been draped over this couch. You have been up since four am and it’s ten am now. The can you can pretend to call home is starting to get too warm, but damn if you’re going to unstick your limbs from this black leather dysfunctional couch. You live here, you’ve lived here since the dawn of time, and you must continue your cosmic wallowing. The dew of the universe drips down your forehead and pools in your body’s creases. Your skin itches and your eyes burn. It’s both the heat and your latent need to be doing something. You are paralysed but you can’t stay still. Your muscles twitch, and your fingers flex. Breathe in and breathe out. You grit your teeth and you think you could sever a finger with the force. You’re bored, and yet there is nothing you want to do. You tried doing something and nothing worked. Nothing helps. Doing nothing is like a piercing scream, like seagulls, the groan of weathered metal, the lapping of waves. Ear-splitting noises fill the silence. The hot wind blowing between cans, the hum of a fridge, the whoosh of a fan. You pray that somehow the universe ends your suffering. Perhaps your life just could end suddenly. Justly or heroically, you don’t give a shit. Now you exist. Now you d- 

**The doorbell rings with the sweet chorus of a garbled rendition of the Spiderman 2 pizza theme.**

You bolt upright, the pain from unpeeling yourself from the couch is satisfying. Your many hours put into sticking to the couch were worth it for this small pleasure. Mini orgasm aside. You better go answer the gentle rapping at your chamber door. You make yourself as presentable as you bother doing right now, the only new addition being your iconic eyewear. Concerned friends should be damned. You have been very busy as of late. Too busy to be concerned with concepts such as being a decent fucking person. “Busy doing what?” your brain traitorously muses. You move quickly, away from your mind, to open the door to find out who the fuck it is. Turns out, ‘tis but a clown, nothing more.

You tense. Normally people message you before visiting and are vetted by your chatbot (minus being created with a copy of your brain). Not that you have been messaged today anyway. At least. You pretend you haven’t. You're caught off guard though because your visitor though is that weird clown fuck, Gamzee. You grip the doorknob tightly, staring down the troll as best as you can while having to crane your neck upwards. His figure is frankly imposing, even if he’s slouching. His lazy grin… is mildly disturbing to you. In fact, the clown smiles wider when he finally registers your presence.

“Ah fuck, I was beginning to think you weren’t at home my brother,” Gamzee says.

Your brain short circuits for a moment as you try to recall if you’ve ever even talked to this fucker. Certainly trying to remember if you’ve done anything to warrant this level of familiarity. From your rifling in the memory box, you draw out the conclusion that he’s just like this with everybody. It still rubs your majestic horse mane the wrong way, however.

“Nope, I’ve been here. Just busy,” you choke out, “with work.” You try to swallow, but your throat is dry. You really should drink something.

Gamzee gives no hints that he even noticed anything glaringly obvious about your entire being. He just chuckles, head dipping with it.

“I get what you mean brother. The toils be never-ending in this bitch of a life. Speaking of which, that’s what brings me here. Thought you of all people should be alright for what I’ve got to offer. You’ve got the disease and I’m the mediculler with the fucking cure. What do you say?” Gamzee rocks on his toes, waiting for your answer.

Meanwhile, your brain has fucked off. You can’t make sense of anything this guy says ever. That’s a lie, you just think he’s really weird. And you don’t know why he came to you. You’re tired. So tired. You’ve always been tired. Also.

“What the fuck’re you offering?” You ask.

He pauses, then chuckles again.

“Shit I forgot to all up and mention that. Thanks for catching that friend. You see, I’ve been working on some stuff. Concocting up some wicked fucking shit that’ll blow everyone’s fucking minds. I thought you’d be wanting to try it. Unwind yourself from all those tight ass fucking knots I be seeing in you.”

Enough of this clown shit.

“Get to the fucking point.” You say.

Gamzee grins.

“Want some weed?” He says.

Time stretches out infinitely while a million thoughts crash into you like waves, shocking your body with the frozen water. You crash and burn back to earth in an instant with nothing but an aching curiosity. Gamzee honestly could have just said that in the first place. 

“Sure. Never got to try it back then anyway.” Your stance relaxes, you shrug. The epitome of nonchalance.

“Great. I got the stuff back at mine. Wanna come try it now?” Gamzee says.

You think. You’ve been very busy after all (doing what). You should go back to work (doing what. You need to finish anyway (doing what).

“Yeah.”

Gamzee spins around on one leg, almost falling over. There’s that chuckling again. Seems to be a thing with him. A quote-unquote “chucklefuck”. He looks back at you and winks. You don’t like that.

“Let's get our wriggle on then,” Gamzee says.

Your feet move mechanically. You question if there is some kind of double meaning behind that. In something entirely unlike yourself, you haven’t actually researched that much about trolls. So you wouldn’t know if it was some kind of innuendo in his language. On the upside the walk is quiet. It’s a little odd to feel the air on your legs, It’s incredibly rare you go out in shorts. It’s gross. Despite having a tanned upper body from years in the middle of the ocean, your legs are pasty as hell. Yet you feel a little grateful, especially with the way the sun is beating down on you. It’s not far to Gamzee’s place. No one in can town is really far from each other. A fact that prickles at your mind sometimes. You also realise you didn’t put on shoes which accounts for the other prickly feeling.

When you go inside Gamzee holds the door open for you. You register him saying something about welcoming you to his humble little abode but you’re just caught up in noticing that it’s not as disgusting inside as you thought it might be. Certainly messy though, maybe stinks just a little, but can you really talk. The troll ushers you upstairs into his bedroom. Somehow it’s cleaner than downstairs. Smells more though. Maybe that’s actually what weed just smells like. You wouldn’t know. Though, it turns out that Gamzee is actually fucking insane. There his bed sits, smack dab in the middle of the room. There’s no room for any mess because his bed is literally taking up most of the fucking space.

“Sit yourself wherever. I got stuff prepped,” he says.

You set your self on the bed that takes up Way More Space than it needs to since it is in the Literal Centre of the fucking room, but at least the sheets are nice. On another note though, Gamzee prepared for you to visit him which is a weird thought. You decide to take a wild guess that this guy doesn’t get out much, nor that he has a lot of friends. You watch him rummage around for a bit until he finds a blunt. Gamzee holds it up reverently like it’s the holy fucking grail and you snort. It sets Gamzee into a wild smile and he shuffles over to flop into sitting next to you. He decaptchalogues a lighter, and lights the thing with no more preamble. You thought for sure there was going to be some weird conversation or awkward staring. Guess you were just wishful thinking. It’s not like you’re suddenly struck with the fact that you’re going to get high with a fucking clown. Fuck. You’ve only tried smoking like once or twice, now you’re doing weed. You watch Gamzee take his turn until the blunt is inevitably handed to you. It’s all up to you now. The world turns to Ash.

“You gonna take the motherfucking thing?”

Of course you’ll take the motherfucking thing. Who does he think you are? Someone who doesn’t taken the motherfucking thing? You’ve been taking the motherfucking thing. You’ll always be taking the motherfucking thing. There’s no way you can’t take the motherfucking thing. It’s the motherfucking thing. The motherfucking thing to take. The motherfucking thing for Kuzco. The motherfucking thing chosen especially to get Kuzco high. Kuzco’s motherfucking thing. That motherfucking thing. While you were busy thinking about taking the motherfucking thing. You absently took the motherfucking thing. You’ve taken the motherfucking thing. What will you do?

Hit that motherfucking thing like it’s the sexiest ass in existence. Wait no.

“Got a lot of hesitation there brother.” The stupid clown says.

Fuck it. You proceed to hit that motherfucking thing.

It’s a pretty underwhelming experience as far as doing things goes. The results are quickly becoming undeniable though. The blunt is gone from your hands. Gamzee has it. Hm. instant high. Interesting. Is that supposed to happen? You don’t know. Then again Gamzee could have alchemised some real messed up shit. You guess. Guess you’re laying on your side now. That’s a good thing to do. At least the blankets are soft on your face. Turns out you’re not a horse furry but a cat furry. Time to rub your face into the blankets. Meow meow motherfucker. You watch Gamzee finish off the blunt. Hm. Okay. Wow, look at Mr Overachiever here. You take stock of how you’re feeling right now. Hm. Hmmmmm. Your mind is slowly projecting out of your head and floating off somewhere to the left. Great. Meanwhile, your subconscious is trying to get your attention. You don’t like this. You’re not in control of your faculties. Things you don’t want to think. Things that you could do. Thoughts pile up one by one. You shouldn’t be here. Why is your anxiety getting worse? You wonder if you’ve been poisoned. Your already dry throat closes up. Why didn’t you drink water? Are you dying?

“Enough of that.”

Oh yeah, you’re in a room with another person. Who’s just put their hand on your head. You flinch. Gamzee ignores you and massages your scalp. Thoughts cease.

.

.

.

.

.

_When was the last time you’ve touched another person?_

_Or let them touch you._

When you resurface you take in a shuddering breath as if you’ve actually been underwater. No hacking up your lungs though, just your head uncomfortably in a purring troll’s lap while they scratch your scalp. What the fuck.

“Thought you’d never chill the fuck out.”

You try to get up but your limbs aren’t working yet, the best you can do is turn your face away from Gamzee’s goofy smile. Your tongue feels swollen. Hopefully it isn’t, but spitting out your next words is incredibly difficult.

“Are you sure that what you made is actually weed?” you say, but Gamzee just throws his head back and laughs. 

It’s not really helping anything here. You’re pretty sure something messed up happened. How long have you been here? You don’t feel up for making a “since the dawn of time” joke since you’re that confused. You feel the sinking fear crawling back in like an ex-lover.

“Hell nah. I’ve never seen weed I just heard talk about it. Thought I’d make a contribution to the planet. Though I may have used some of my voodoos to end those loud thoughts of yours.”

Distantly you think that maybe it’s about time you get the fuck out of here. Personally, you’re not a fan of mind control. They suck every football season. Or something like that. Gamzee’s hand on you is distracting and not even in a fun way. It’s relaxing and that gets on your nerves. You start to itch again but for the opposite reason as before. This is too much. You, Dirk Strider, have had enough of this. Amazingly, you find the strength to roll off of Gamzee’s lap. You keep rolling until you’re face down on the floor. Cue Roblox death noise.

“You alright brother?”

Your head spins. Why is saying the words with your voice hole so fucking hard.

“It’s way past my curfew. Gotta get home before my fridge decides to make a run for it.”

This is fine. This is fine. This is fine. Your head hurts. You swear you’re going to die of dehydration or starvation. You don’t know. The two feelings are battling it out. Gamzee touches your back and something in you bends under the weight.

Gamzee is now also on the ground. You’re standing over him. Katana drawn. When did that happen? He’s just staring blankly up at you. Why is he such a threat? You feel sick. You need to leave. You turn around shakily and make baby steps for the door.

You fade in and out… pain from falling down the stairs. "I warned you dog"… nearly tripping and eating dirt on the way back… someone saying your name… running… your house… throwing up in the sink… drinking water. Too much. Throw up again. Drink slower… the sweet embrace of your couch.

When did you start crying like a little bitch?


End file.
